Sorting out
by egyptianmyth
Summary: Grissom filters through his generalized self, his reactions from learning he is going deaf, and wondering how he will handle it.


TITLE: Sorting out  
  
Summary: Grissom filters through his generalized self, his reactions from learning he is going deaf, and wondering how he will handle it.  
  
Spoilers: Hunger Artist mainly  
  
Rating: G. Barley PG  
Disclaimer: CSI is not mine, though I wish it were, and I'm not using it or anything involved in its production to get some money. I just like to write about it. Please for the love of God, don't sue me.   
  
It was 11:00 at night, on his day off no less, and Grissom still sat on his couch; drink in his hand, sorting out his faults. His thoughts. His feelings. He had sat in his car on the way from the doctors office, feeling the news set in. He turned on the radio. Ironic thing to do when you've just been informed that you're slowly going deaf. A week ago when he had noticed his hearing wasn't as his should have been, it wasn't like he thought he was going deaf right then and there, but slowly, he began to notice it getting worse. Catherine would mumble, Warrick would be his monosyllabic self, and mutter his words in that indifferent tone of his. But even when Grissom didn't really hear them sometimes, he didn't notice it really. He lip read, and carefully studied their body language, and his brain filled in the gaps for him, without really noticing it. But it was those subtle moments, those moments when he could not fill in those gaps, that Gil realized something was wrong. His mother had been deaf, and raised him not only to treat everyone with respect and equality above all else, but to be able fluently participate in deaf people's way of life. He could lip read, and do sign language. Some of his best friends in high school were deaf. The first girl that he ever kissed was deaf. So in reality, going deaf, it really wasn't that horrible. And though Grissom never really imagined it happening to him, never really expected it to in his own little naive way of denial, he always seemed to know that it was coming. His condition was believed to be genetic after all. It wasn't that horrible. But was it? Music. The sound of someone's voice. The sounds of nature. Of interaction with other people. Eventually, these things would all fade away. In weeks? Months? Years, even? Who knew. And his job. It wasn't until he had come home, that it had really hit him. He set down his mail, on the coffee table in front of the couch. In seemingly one continuous motion, he glided toward his small kitchen to pour himself a Coke, or at least something carbonated. But before he could, he froze in front of the kitchen table were he ate his lonely lifeless meals every night after shift. He had thrown his jacket on the table the day before, when he had gotten home from work, executing the same routine, tired and grumpy. But on top of his jacket was his ID. It all hit him like a sledge hammer. Work. Job. Career. These words meant routine, boring labor, even obligation to some. Not to Gil. These words, they were his life. So he skipped the Coke and went strait to the scotch. Afterwards, he slipped onto the couch, hoping the soft upholstery would simply swallow him up. It didn't. So he sat there. He needed to sit here, until the alcohol dulled his nerves-and his senses, and figured this out. Would this affect his job? Well, that was obvious. But how much? Like he had told the doctor, his job was to connect things. The pieces of the puzzle. To bring justice to the victims of a crime. He talked to a witness. He connected the tone of their voice with their body language, to judge their reactions in his own right. How long would it be before the better part of that ability would slip away? And how would he replace it when it did? Would being unable to hear effect his ability to all together collect evidence? How well could he really communicate with his team mates? Good God, how was he going to tell them?! He knew that he owed them more than just being a sniveling coward and waiting until his hearing was so far gone, that all that was left of listening to them was watching their soundless lips move. But it wasn't something he could bring something he could bring up in normal, although solemn conversation. He didn't see himself sitting them down like children and telling them, "Ok, guys, I hate to break it to you, but I'm going deaf." But how long could he wait? How long before it wall all gone? Worst of all: how would they react? He could see the reactions, here them in his head. Shocked faces, tears maybe, disbelief. Questions he couldn't answer. He knew, that even if they didn't mean to, they would treat him differently. Cut him more slack, talk to him differently...give him pity. And pity was something he could not handle. He couldn't work, and refused to let work stall because every one was treating him like a child. He didn't think there would ever be a right time, but he knew that if he kept this from them, they'd never trust him again. He couldn't afford that. Catharine's words came back to him: "You see these people every day and whether you like it or not, you build a family with them." Though slightly drunk, at the time, she had never spoken words that seemed more true, especially now. He couldn't handle this. He sighed, and placed the cold glass of scotch against his forehead, hoping its cool perspiration would soothe his frustration. It sounded pathetic, but he missed his mom more than he ever had in this moment. Her words of guidance were something he needed more than even he could possibly imagine. And though it seemed that seemed there were times when he could almost read his mother's thoughts as a kid, those words, try as he might, would not come to him. He was alone in this. The few people that he trusted were the ones that he felt he could not tell. Lapsing into a frustration that was so great he was almost near tears, Grissom sat slouched onto the couch, scotch to his forehead for hours, staring blankly towards the floorboards. It wasn't until dawn's first lights seeped through his closed blinds that he drifted off to sleep. He slept until the early evening of that day, hair and closed rumpled, with his glass still in his hand, and a puddle of the scotch on the floor. He leaned over and set the glass on the coffee table, ran a hand through his hair, and went to get a towel to clean up the scotch. As he was mopping it up, he considered the thought of not going in to work that day. But as he concluded earlier, he owed them more than being so much of a coward that he couldn't even bare to meet them eye to eye any more. Besides, if he didn't go in, they would ask questions. And questions were something that he could not handle right now. Besides, his sleep was refreshing, and thought still nerve racked, he felt up and ready to face this new day. He sprinted through the townhouse, changing, shaving, making himself presentable, and then, just as quickly, sprinted out the door. It would be a while. But one day, he would be ready. 


End file.
